Beneath the Attic
by Tig027
Summary: A fanfiction version rewrite of VC Andrews Beneath the Attic.


**Prelude**

1889 – Alexandria, Virginia

A storm of conflict rages within me. I wish to be the daughter that my mother wants – a proper Victorian lady – to be everything she desires for me, dreams for me, wants for me. But, those are her desires, her dreams and wants, not my own. I do not wish to disappoint her, and I do wish to be this perfect daughter that she sees me as. Yet, I want to step off the path she has planned for me, to forge my own and see where it leads me without a guiding hand, without someone giving warnings so that I may avoid the twists and turns. I want to make my own mistakes so that I may learn from them, that any painful memory, any lingering pain made along the way is proof that I at least attempted something on my own, to take the bitterness with the sweetness.

It is at times stifling, confining, as if I'm locked away in some hidden room, by obeying my mother and father, carrying out their unspoken commands as well as to be this loving and dotting child they expect not only of me, but of my brother Alistair as well.

He and I both are well aware of what happens to those that wander off the path that has been set for them by their parents. Our Aunt Agnes is the evidence of that, a constant reminder of what happens to those that seek to break from the course set – a shame, a great disappointment that is shunned by society and family and must live on charity and handouts, becoming a curse on family and name.

Yet, Alistair, like I, aware of the dire consequences, desire nothing more than to face any consequences that are laid upon our feet, or that may drape from us like chains to weigh us down. We simply want to break out of this gilded cage and experience what the world outside the confines of this comfortable life holds for us. To see if we are fully prepared for the world instead of it being prepared for us. To not always have the glitter, but the tarnish as well.

And I would learn another old saying, be careful what you wish for.

**Chapter One**

The sound of raised voices woke me from my sleep. I blinked my eyes to see gray light streaming through my curtains, and to hear early morning birdsong filling the air outside the windows. I sat up slowly, believing I was still dreaming when I heard something crash downstairs and my father's booming voice fill the house like the resounding echo of thunder.

Throwing back the blankets I hurriedly got out of bed and slipped on my robe, belting it loosely around my waist as I crossed the distance between my bed and door, throwing it open to find my mother hurrying down the hallway with the crucifix that had been in her family since their arrival in Salem Village clutched in her hand, catching the dim glow of the gas lights that lined the hallway.

"Corrine, go back to bed," she said flicking her eyes at me in passing.

"It's morning, Mother," I returned weakly as an argument, but she was already gone, a shadow in her black robe and nightgown, her silvery blonde hair streaming down her back like a spill of molten gold. I threw a glance back at my bed, knowing that sleep would not return, at least not until I too found out what was going on downstairs.

I hurried after her, glancing quickly toward Alistair's room to see the door was wide open, his bed unslept in.

Had he not returned after dinner last night? He knew what today was, how important it was to our father. He would not be as reckless as that would he? Yet even as I thought it, I knew that since last year he had been testing the patience of our parents, tugging at what he called the noose around his neck.

My heart quickened in my chest as I pressed my hand firmly to it, hoping and praying that it was not he who was the cause of Father's still booming voice. Father would not dare draw attention to family matters for surely he must realize that some of our neighbors were waking and could possibly hear him now and would wonder what was going on within the Dixon house.

Mother reached the top of the stairs and paused, righting her shoulders, putting that steel in her back as she placed a hand on the bannister railing. I drew up short behind her as she turned her head to glance at me. Without saying a word she held out her hand behind her and mine flew into it like a bird seeking the safety of the nest. Her grip was firm as iron as she led us down the winding staircase, my father's voice now becoming clearer, his words puncturing the air.

"How dare you bring that trash into my house!"

I gasped, as did Mother, as we paused halfway down. She uttered a prayer beneath her breath, one for strength, then we continued onward.

My heart was hammering in my chest. Had Alistair brought home one of the girls from _The Red Door_? I was not supposed to know about that place, but several friends of mine had brothers and uncles, sometimes even their own fathers, that attended that house of illicit behavior where the women openly displayed their wantonness. That place was a curiosity to me and my friends and we often wondered if the stories we heard from eavesdropping on our mothers at afternoon teas were true about it.

But now was not the time to wonder about such things.

I pushed thoughts of _The Red Door_ from my mind as Mother and I crept slowly across the hallway and came to sand at the entrance to the front parlor. The scene that greeted us was shocking to say the least.

Relief flooded me when I saw it was not Alistair, but that relief was fleeting for who I realized it was that had earned Father's rage.

Aunt Agnes was on the floor in front of the fireplace, a hand at her busted lip, tears swimming in her eyes. She was wrapped in the glow of the dying fire, appearing ethereal with her reddish-gold blonde hair glowing in the firelight and streaming around her face like silk ribbons fluttering in a breeze. At Father's feet laid a young man sporting an already forming blackened eye and bloodied nose. My father towered over him, backlit by the glow from the fireplace as well, looking godly and frightening at the same time.

His blond hair was at disarray, curling every which way, his robe and night shirt stretched across his broad, muscular chest. His arms were bent and taut to such a nature I expected the sleeves of his robe to split apart. One hand was fisted and covered in blood, the other holding a fireplace poker.

Dear god, had he used it on that stranger at his feet?

"Harrington!" Mother gasped. "What is this? What is going on?" she demanded, her grip on my hand increasing painfully, but I ignored it, my eyes fixed on the stranger as he shifted and began crawling away. I noticed his trousers were partially undone and averted my eyes quickly, staring at a painting that hung on the parlor wall of Saint Sebastian.

"Your sister," he spat out, as if the word was something foul on his tongue, while never taking his eyes off the man. "Saw fit to bring into my house some piece of trash!" he took another swing at the man with the poker but Mother was swift. She released my hand and was already catching Father's wrist, stopping what could have been a fatal blow.

Despite my mother's diminutive height, truly anyone that stood before my father was diminutive to his height of six foot five, she carried a lot of strength in her small frame.

"Harrington," she said, her tone suddenly soft. "Let go of the poker, _now_," she commanded, her voice carrying steel laced through those softly spoken words. "Let it go, Harrington. You will commit no act of violence in this house."

He looked at her, his blue eyes bright and shining as he seemed surprised to see her standing before him. He looked at where she still gripped his wrist, and then to his own hand which held the poker. He seemed suddenly shocked and ashamed all at once. He began to loosen his grip on the poker and Mother caught it, pressing it against her side.

"Corrine, help your aunt to her bedroom," Mother ordered not taking her eyes off my father. "I have to deal with our…our uninvited guest."

I moved quickly and went to my aunt. She was sobbing quietly as I helped her to feet, seeing that the front of her blouse was ripped, exposing her undergarment beneath as I adjusted her shawl about her shoulders to return some modesty to her. I slipped my arm around her shoulders and guided her from the parlor, throwing a glance back at my parents.

Father's eyes burned with a fire as he stared at me and Aunt Agnes, yet I wasn't sure if it was a fire of hate or something else for there was something in his eyes that I only seen a few times in my life, and not with him but with the boys that were interested in my girlfriends. Those boys would have a similar look as that when they saw my friend with a boy that was not them.

No, I was imagining things. Father viewed Aunt Agnes as the stone around his neck, as the only blemish in his life.

I guided Aunt Agnes across the hallway and up the stairs, her hand clutching my arm tightly.

"I didn't…," she began, but her sobs were making it difficult to understand what she was saying. Once we were on the second floor and further away now I asked her what she was saying. She remained silent as I guided her down the hallway and toward her room at the very back of the house, a room father had picked for her when he had agreed to let her live here with us about four years prior. "I didn't invite him in, Corrine," she whispered as I opened her bedroom door and led her within. "I swear I didn't!"

"Shh," I whispered guiding her to her bed. "Let me help you into your night clothes," I said even though morning light was now brightly illuminating the curtains. "Just sit there."

She nodded weakly, her hand coming up to brush away locks of her hair from her face as she sniffled.

I crossed the room to her dresser, opening the top one and drew out a nightgown that I draped over my arm. I then walked over to the washstand in the corner, pouring out some into the basin. I selected a towel that was neatly folded beside the basin and taking the basin up into the crook of my arm, returned to Aunt Agnes.

She was a beautiful young woman. One could always tell that she and Mother were sisters, even if they had not shared the same mother. My Grandfather Cornelius had remarried shortly after the death of my Grandmother Vivian. He was sixty-five, his new bride, Agnes' mother, was twenty-nine. Agnes and her older brother Lionel was their only children together. I had no idea where Lionel was now. Once our grandfather had died, he had taken his inheritance and left America to travel Europe. There was occasional letters addressed to Mother and Agnes from him that would arrive, but they were never timely and sometimes dated months ago, or a year at most.

I laid out the nightgown on the bed beside Agnes and sat the basin on the nightstand, moving aside a few books and a clock. I dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and began to clean up her split lip.

"You're much too sweet, Corrine," Agnes whispered wincing. I eased up the pressure on the cloth against her lip, still wiping away the blood. "I didn't bring that young man home. I was down at the church working late for the charity drive. There will be people your father can ask about that. One of the nuns told me I could stay in the overnight guest room until morning. I was on my way home when that man accosted me, when he followed me home." She shook her head as I knelt back, listening. "I told him to leave me be, but he followed me inside and that's how your father found us." She brought a fisted hand against her lips, shaking her head. "He flew into a rage. He grabbed that…that cad and threw him to the floor and then struck me."

"I'm sorry," I whispered reaching out and taking her hand into mine, squeezing it gently. "I believe you Aunt Agnes. I do."

She let out a trembling sigh and nodded her head, tears still glistening in her eyes. "I hope he doesn't throw me out, Corrine. Please, don't let that happen!" she whispered. "I have nowhere to go. My own mother won't even take me back in after…," she paused, catching herself.

If I was bolder, I would have pressed her for this unspoken dark secret that had led her to living with us. It was always there hovering over her, that unknown reason for why she came to live with us, for why Grandmother Lena had kicked her out of the only home she had known until ours.

"Doesn't matter," she whispered dropping her hand from my mouth to her lap. She placed it over my own as she reached out and placed two fingers under my chin. "You've done enough already for me Corrine. You should retire to bed, get some sleep. Tonight is the big night of your father's annual party for the bank customers and you want to look your best for it."

I sighed, shaking my head.

"A lot of boring people talking about boring things," I replied with a smile. "I'm not very interested in attending but Mother wants me to start socializing, to make myself familiar with these particular guests since my debut will be occurring in a few months after I turn sixteen." I held onto Agnes' hand for a moment longer, sweeping my thumb over her fingers. "Maybe you and I can sneak off into the garden when the party is in full swing and you can show me how to read tarot cards?"

Aunt Agnes, and what few friends she had, were members of a small spiritualism movement. Mother frowned on it, saying it was converting with the Devil and would only lead to terrible things occurring. Yet she never admonished her half-sister more than that and had chosen to turn a blind eye to such activities that were only held when Father was at work.

"If your mother heard you speaking about such," she trailed off, her eyes going to the locked nightstand drawer where she kept her tarot cards at. A small smile graced her lips. "If you want? We can."

"I do," I said leaning up and kissing her on the forehead. "Now, change out of your clothes and get into bed. I shall leave word with Helen to see if she can fix your blouse. And if not? Well, a trip to the boutique later will be in order."

She smiled and reached up, patting my cheek as I rested my hand over it, then bid her good rest and exited the bedroom, closing the door behind me.

I decided I would leave the messy business downstairs to my parents to deal with and would return to my bedroom to see if sleep would come back to me. I did not think it would.

On my return to my room I spotted Alistair appearing at the top of the stairs. His dark blond hair was swept back and was at every odd angle while his jacket, shirt, and trousers were wrinkled and stained. His normal noble, handsome face was at the moment, not so noble. He had dark circles under his eyes and was sporting a five o'clock shadow that dusted his sharp cheekbone and angular jawline. Many of my girlfriends were often fawning over him, always trying to catch his attention and failing to do so. To be honest, I don't recall him ever mentioning being interested in any of them, or any girl for that matter.

"Alistair!" I whispered as he gave me that crooked, yet charming, smile of his. "Where have you been? Did Mother and Father see you?"

He put a finger to his lips and motioned for me to follow him into his bedroom. I threw a glance behind him but saw no sign of our parents. I hurried after him.

Once in his bedroom, he shut the door behind us and pulled off his jacket, tossing it onto a nearby chair as he dug his tie out of his trouser pocket and flicked it in the same direction. Despite being so blessed with looks, being tidy was not a virtue he sought to embrace.

He sat down on the edge of his bed and began to unlace his boots, setting them aside. Then he removed his socks and threw them in opposite directions before laying back on his bed, propping himself up on his elbows.

He reminded me of some dark angel come from on high. He was too beautiful with those gray-blue eyes of his that beguiled anyone who was in his company. And his drive in athletics had created a lean, muscular body which any garment showcased. I remember a few times we had gone to the beach and every eye, women and men both, were on him in that form fitting swimsuit.

Alistair was only two years older than me, and Father was already talking about finding him a position at the bank before he would be sent off to college to get an education in banking so he would have some experience and be familiar with the inner workings and duties of being a banker. It was not what my brother wanted and I knew it. He did not want to follow our father's footsteps, but his own. I doubted that would occur for Father was as immovable as a mountain in what he wanted for his children.

"Where have you been all night?" I asked taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "Did you see what happened downstairs?"

"I was just making my way up the walk when the shouting began," he said grinning. "I went around back and crawled in through the basement window and made my way up into the kitchen. There I hid in the pantry and once Father and Mother were locked away in his office?"

"Such a mouse you are," I said with a sigh. "So what had you out all evening?"

"_Who_, dear sister. Not a what."

"Oh, pardon me then," I said with feigned hurt. "I don't possess the gift of foresight so please tell me with _whom_ did you spend all night with?"

"Alexander Cabot," he replied. A wistful look came over his face as he laid back fully, extending his body. He crossed his feet and placed his hands behind his head. "We went to a show at the El Royale Theater."

"The El Royale!" I exclaimed, then lowered my voice. "That's where…that's where they show women taking off their clothes!"

"And men," he added as I felt my face suddenly blush hotly.

I ignored my heated face and stared at him, arching a brow. "Why would you want to see men strip? Don't you all have the same…the same…"

"Penises?" he said.

My breath caught for a moment. "That's not the word I was going to use!" I said shocked. "Items. Items was the word I was going to use."

"Items?" he grinned crookedly and let out a soft laugh. "Fine, items it is, and yes, all men have items, Corrine. But not all are the same size."

"Enough of that talk!" I said casting a glance toward the door. "Surely you two didn't spend all evening there?"

I couldn't fathom anyone wishing to stare at naked bodies all night if he had stayed there all night.

"Oh no, we didn't," he said shaking his head. "We met up with some people he knew and went to a little establishment where one doesn't have to put on airs due to their last names, where no one cares who you are or what you do."

I frowned. It didn't sound like a very well-meaning place to attend.

"So you and this Alexander spent all night there?"

"Well, until a few hours ago," he replied. "Then we went back to his place."

"His place? How old is he?"

"My age," he replied. "He lives with his widowed mother and a grandmother. I believe there's an uncle in there somewhere but he's out of town on business."

"Well, it sounds as if you had a very eventful evening, Alistair. Just don't do such again so soon, hm?"

"I just may tonight," he replied. "Tonight is the night of father's annual party for clients of the bank isn't it?"

"It is," I said. "And we're expected to be in attendance."

"May as well slap harnesses on us and parade us around," he replied shaking his head. He stared up at the ceiling. "There has to be more to this life than what he and Mother has decided for us, Corrine." He tilted his head in my direction. "And I think I have been given a glimpse of it."

"What do you mean? After one night with this stranger you think you found what? An escape from the gilded prison you call our life?"

He sat up and reached out, catching a lock of my hair between his fingers. "Alexander isn't a stranger. I have known him for a few months, Corrine. He's exciting. He knows things I don't even know. He's…," he released my hair and stared forward. "He's like a breath of fresh air brought into my life, Corrine."

I stared at him. "You speak of him in the manner that I've heard some boys speak of girls."

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath before releasing it. "He's just a friend, Corrine," he replied looking back at me. "An exciting one."

"You know what Mother says about excitement," I said sitting closer then rested my head on his shoulder.

"That it can often be the Devil tricking you into doing things that could have severe consequences," he intoned in a perfect mimic of her voice. "I thought the Puritan era was long gone but it seems to live on in our saintly mother."

"She's just looking out for us, Alistair," I replied reaching out and squeezing his hand. "But sometimes I do wonder what it would be like to not be…"

"Yoked? Chained?"

"Yes," I said. "To simply not be guided every step of the way. To not have your days or even your year planned out ahead of time and keeping to it without going off course." I looked up at his handsome face. "Do you think it will occur? Do you think we will ever not be imprisoned by good intentions?"

"Before Alexander? I thought I would agree to everything that Father wants of me, expects of me. That I would follow his footsteps instead of seeing where my own would take me," he said looking at me, reaching up and cupping my cheek. "But now? Now I see that I don't have to."

"You seem so sure," I said kissing the inside of his palm. "Wish I was that sure. I have too many doubts that plague me, too many fears sometimes that hold me back."

"Don't deny yourself what you want to do with your life, Corrine. When the chance presents itself? Seize it and don't look back."

"This Alexander seems like an eye opener," I said. "I wish to meet him."

"I want you to meet him," he replied. "He's…He's very special to me, Corrine."

"Does this mean I have been replaced?" I teased softly, wrapping my arms around his as we watched the morning further arrive through his bedroom window.

"You'll never be replaced, Corrine," he said kissing the top of my head. "I have enough space in my heart for two people."

I looked up at him and found him staring at me. He seemed on the verge of speaking some great truth just then, yet it passed, the look leaving his face.

"How is Aunt Agnes?" he asked.

"Father split her lip," I replied resettling my head more comfortably on his shoulder. "He accused her of bringing a man home when she claims she didn't."

"Do you believe her?"

"I do."

"Then I do as well," he said nodding. "Split lip." He sighed softy. "Last time he nearly broke her arm when they got into it."

"And before that, there was that push down the stairs," I said recalling that horrific scene. Agnes had only sprained her ankle and received a few bruises in the tumble down the stairs. Father claimed he didn't push her, that she fell on her own.

"One could be led to believe that Father wants to send her to an early grave," he said darkly.

It was not something I wanted to think about, to dwell on, and even much less give voice to even if I had had similar thoughts which had occurred to me once or twice.

Instead, as if sensing that this was too much of a dreary topic to start a new day with, we fell quiet and watched the arrival of the morning in silence.

**II**

Alistair was not too far off the mark on our mother's religious stance. She proudly claimed Puritan ancestors from Salem Village on her father's side, and while the strong puritanical beliefs had been watered down through the generations, she still clung to some quite fervently.

Each morning we were to join her in the private chapel for prayer before we had breakfast. And sometimes at noon and once more before dinner. She believed that the Devil was always afoot and that we must never allow him entry into our lives and prayer was one way to make sure we kept a wall around ourselves and our home. Of course when she said this once, Father was quick to point out that Old Scratch has already come into our lives and leveled an icy gaze in the direction of Aunt Agnes who was seated on the other side of the parlor, unaware of the remark as she sewed. Mother reminded Father that money was also the root of all evil and could turn God Fearing people into their worse selves to which he lifted his newspaper he was reading higher and adjoined from the conversation.

I wasn't sure why Father detested Aunt Agnes so much. Mother held no ill will toward her and showed her sisterly affection though at times I felt it was forced. I thought this because Mother was thirty-six and Aunt Agnes was nineteen, a difference of seventeen years. Whereas most of my friend's aunts were matronly types, my own aunt could be, and often was mistaken for, my older sister. However, Agnes tended to dress several decades older, and in the frumpiest attires which hid her willowy figure. Alistair once said she should simply join a convent since she dressed in such unflattering styles.

I merely shook my head at his rather uncouth statement, but did wonder why one as young as she would purposely chose to wear such unbecoming clothing when she could have been sporting the more daring styles that some her age were starting to wear. At least if she had I could have lived vicariously through her clothing.

Mother did not approve of the changing clothing styles, regarding them as bordering indecent, but she was a contradiction. She loved dressing up if she was going out of the house for afternoon tea with her friends at their houses or meeting Father for lunch or hosting one of their dinners for his friends and clients from the bank.

I had a feeling that this morning prayers would be allowed to be missed given what had occurred, although I did say one for Aunt Agnes after I had left Alistair to rest and returned to my bedroom.

I did not believe sleep would come to claim me again as I was too awake and already I could hear the servants busying about. I wondered how many had heard what had happened. Father's outbursts were rare, but when they did occur it sent many scurrying for cover, servants included. The only one that could be around him besides Mother was Patrick McGuire, his gentleman's servant. The two had been boyhood friends and had served together in the Civil War when both were just nineteen. Once father had established himself he had hired Patrick on and he had been part of the family ever since.

Going to the pull cord beside my bedroom door I gave it a firm tug and then retreated to my closet, throwing open the doors and eyed the various outfits that hung awaiting me. I selected a purple and gray velvet afternoon dress and that of a black hat I had recently purchased on a shopping trip with Mother a week back. I crossed my bedroom and stepped up to the full length mirror, holding the dress up against me. It brought out what Mother called my peaches and cream complexion though I still had a girlish face. Most of my girlfriends were already maturing, blossoming into young womanhood while I seemed to be of the slow blooming variety. Although the one thing I had detested greatly upon getting older and leaving childhood behind was my monthly menstrual. It was in agreement among my girlfriends that while it marked the pride entry into womanhood, there was nothing pleasant about it. Anyone who thought it was clearly needed their head examined was my opinion. Nor was the diaper like garment I had to wear while it was upon me pleasant in any regard. Thank the lord above for talcum powder.

My eyes roamed over my room and settled on my dressing table where my attention came to rest upon the newly arrived gift from Grandmother Lena. I went over and plucked up the leather box and opened it to gaze at the bracelet she had sent me. It was adorned with shiny purple stones around a gold cameo of a woman in profile. Mother had thought it resembled Grandmother Lena, but I thought it was of the goddess Artemis.

"That woman loves to remind me who is in charge of my father's fortune," Mother said upon seeing the gift and after her proclamation. "It wouldn't surprise me if she sat for this," she added, yet she gazed upon the cameo with appreciation. "The next time she comes to visit be sure to wear it, Corrine. It will make her happy to see you wearing it in her presence."

Grandmother Lena. It was hard to think of her in such a matronly term as grandmother, even if she was my step-grandmother, Mother had always told Alistair and me to treat her as if she was of our own flesh and blood.

Grandmother Lena was a woman of still exceptional beauty, turning heads whenever she entered a room, garnering compliments from every male and female in attendance. And always traveling aboard, barely spending time in Virginia, and most often in New York City or in England or even Paris. She would send me little gifts from those locales that I hoped to one day visit myself.

But for now, I was content with Richmond and all it had to offer. Yet Alistair's voice once more rung loud and clear in my thoughts as I turned from the mirror and made my way back to the closet to select a pair of dress boots to go with my outfit.

_For how long will you be content living here Corrine, obeying our parents, marrying who Mother and Father have chosen for you, never having a say in the path your life takes?_

I looked toward my bedroom window and onto the bright new day. For how long would I be content in accepting things before I sought to break free? Before I decided to forge my own path? Would I ever dare? Or would I cower and accept what Mother and Father believed was best for me? Expected of me? To keep them happy while denying my own happiness?

A knock at my bedroom door drew me from such thoughts as I vanished the frown that had settled over my face and replaced it with a cheery smile that even I suspected looked forced as I called out to the maid to enter.


End file.
